


Highways / Home

by stoplightglow



Series: Circuit 'verse [4]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Motorcycles, Racing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27486109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoplightglow/pseuds/stoplightglow
Summary: May 2021. The days leading up to the Fifteenth Annual Grand Circuit Tour.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Series: Circuit 'verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1755916
Comments: 22
Kudos: 96





	Highways / Home

**Author's Note:**

> okay, one last circuit 'verse installment, since so many people requested this! thank you for giving this 'verse so much love over the last year. i'm sad to end it, but i'm so glad i got to share it with you <3 i really hope you enjoy. 
> 
> thank you to nat for beta.

Gerard folds his arms over the back of the couch and leans forward so he can talk into Frank’s ear. “See how Lindsey just slowed down on the turn to fake him out? Watch her hand on her throttle. She might try that on you.”

Frank knocks his head gently against Gerard’s cheek without taking his eyes off the TV. A table of sports analysts are discussing clips from last year’s tour and their predictions for this year. “Do you think I’m an idiot, babe?”

“No.” Gerard runs his fingers through the curls of hair at the base of Frank’s neck as the analysts bring up a chart of Lindsey’s upward trajectory. “All I’m saying is, you can never stop fighting for the inside of the turn, even if it seems safe. Okay?”

“Mhm.” Absently, Frank leans back into Gerard’s touch. “You ever think about taking the morning off?”

“I take plenty of mornings off,” Gerard says. “But now you’re leaving for California in two days. No time off.” He turns to kiss the side of Frank’s head before standing up straight again. “I’m making toast. You want any?”

“Not really hungry,” says Frank. Gerard shrugs and heads into the kitchen. Frank turns up the volume on the TV to drown out the noise of Gerard wrinkling the plastic bread bag and searching for butter in the fridge. 

When the toast is ready, Gerard comes back into the living room with two slices and sits next to Frank on the couch. He stops halfway through a bite to say, “Oh, hey. That’s me.”

“Yeah.” Frank looks at him sideways and smiles. “How old are you there? Seventeen?”

Gerard watches as his younger self, natural mousy-brown hair and all, pulls up on Conrad and overtakes him. “Eighteen. It was my third tour.”

“And yet the whole world already had a crush on you.”

“No, actually, I think that was just you.” Gerard manages to keep a straight face for approximately ten seconds before splitting into a smug grin.

“Fucker.” Frank throws an arm around Gerard’s neck and drags him down for a kiss. Gerard’s eyes slip shut as he kisses back, and he blindly sets his plate of toast on the coffee table for safekeeping.

Once they separate, Gerard touches the high spot on Frank’s cheekbone with his fingertips. From the sound of it, the TV’s gone to commercial. “You know, in retrospect, I could’ve pulled off that move a lot better if I’d kept an eye on my mirrors. Someone else was behind me and using me as an in, but I didn’t even notice until afterward.”

Frank pulls back a few inches from Gerard’s touch. “Were you seriously thinking about that while I was kissing you?”

“What?” Gerard blinks. “No, I just—”

Frank laughs incredulously. “You were totally thinking about racing technique while my tongue was in your mouth.”

“I’m just trying to come up with things that could help you.”

“Yeah, but we were. . .” Trailing off, Frank shakes his head. “Whatever. If this is how it’s going to be this morning, let’s just go train.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything.” Frank reaches for the remote and turns off the TV. The apartment is suddenly quiet. “You said it yourself, I leave for the tour in two days. So let’s go train.”

Gerard narrows his eyes for a second, then decides to take Frank at his word. They really are running out of time to squeeze in last minute fixes. “Okay. I’ll call Travie and have him close down our section of the Turnpike.”

“Great,” says Frank.

“Great.”

*

“You can hit that turn faster, Frank, come on. Trust yourself.”

The tail of Frank’s Suzuki swings out as he brakes too quickly. Flipping his visor up, he glares daggers at Gerard. “If I go any faster, I’m going to flip over one of these tires and ruin my face for the cameras tomorrow.”

Gerard looks out at the course of tires they’d set up on the Turnpike to mimic the tight streets of the final sprint in New York City, where Frank had been weakest on last year’s tour, not that he’d ever admit it. “You’re supposed to imagine them as skyscrapers.”

Frank rolls his eyes, and Gerard can just tell that he’s grinding his teeth even though he can’t see the lower half of his face. “Fine. If I pick up more speed on that turn, I’ll crash into the fucking Paramount Building. Is that better?”

“Well, at least you know your location.” That earns Gerard another eye roll. “Look, I know it’s hard, but you have to master cityscapes too. It’s where everyone has the least experience at high speeds, so if you’re ready for it, it makes the most difference.”

“I’ve heard the speech, Gee.” Frank releases his brakes and slowly circles one of the tires on the road before stopping perpendicular in front of Gerard’s Harley. “It’s not like I’m scared of it. I just  _ can’t _ go any faster.”

“You’re not scared?”

“No.”

“Then what’s slowing you down?”

“Jesus Christ.” Frank throws his head back and shakes it. Gerard just watches him, waiting for him to work through his dramatics or whatever. “It’s not  _ physically _ possible. Like, speed and velocity and gravity and shit.”

“I did it. A year ago. In Times Square.”

Frank waves a dismissive hand. “You’re Gerard Way. The laws of physics don’t apply to you.”

“You’re Frank Iero,” Gerard counters. 

“Don’t say that like it means anything,” Frank says. Gerard’s eyebrows furrow at the implication of that. But before he can protest, Frank continues, “It’s just not possible, babe. Sorry.”

“Fine.” Shrugging, Gerard fakes nonchalance. Frank might not want to push himself while he’s alone on the Turnpike with tires, but Gerard knows how to get him worked up. “So if I said I could make it through these tires to the next toll before you, you wouldn’t want to test that, right?”

Even as he shakes his head, Frank’s hand twitches on his throttle. “You’re so fucking subtle, anyone ever told you that?”

“Yeah.” Gerard grins. “That’s what everyone says about me. They say I’m subtle, and I’m better than Frank Iero at city sprints.”

“Now you’re just being an asshole.”

“Imagine if Lindsey beat you in that last mile,” Gerard presses. “She would send us keychains with our names on them from the fucking Times Square tourist shops for months.”

Hell if Gerard knows why, but that’s the final straw for Frank. He flips his visor down, twists his accelerator, and takes off down the Turnpike. He still slows down too much for the first group of tires, but Gerard can fix that.

Gerard tugs on his helmet and revs his engine, tearing after Frank. The second Frank catches him in his side mirrors, he shoots forward with a whole new burst of speed. Gerard can see Frank reach for his hand brake as the next few tires come up, so he speeds up until he’s right behind him, not giving Frank any space to chicken out.

Despite it all, Frank still finds the balance to move one gloved hand back and flip Gerard off. Which is honestly just adorable.

Frank hits the turn too stiff, which Gerard sees immediately in the lines of his shoulders and back. Even though he doesn’t want to, Gerard pumps his brakes to give Frank just enough leeway. Frank doesn’t hit the tire or Gerard. As soon as they’re back on a straight part of the course, though, Gerard gets right back on his tail.

“If you slow down on the next one, we’re both hitting the Paramount Building!” Gerard yells, but he’s not sure if Frank can hear him over the roar of their engines. It doesn’t matter much, because the way Gerard is advancing on Frank, he’s pretty sure Frank gets the message.

Right before the next tires, Frank’s whole body tenses. Gerard can’t help it; he starts to brace himself for impact. 

All at once, Frank relaxes into his bike like one big exhale. He swerves between the tires neatly and only uses his brakes for the sharp right turn at the very end. He moves fast enough to keep his lead. And more importantly, neither of their bikes suffer so much as a scratch.

The toll is only a couple more minutes away. Gerard lets Frank careen towards it through the last few tires without too much pressure from behind. He falters once but recovers, clearly getting it now. Gerard grins underneath his helmet.

Once they skid to a stop at the finish line, Frank cuts his engine and yanks off his helmet. He all but tears Gerard’s off, too, before pulling him down to kiss him hard. The force makes Gerard’s Harley wobble dangerously beneath him, and Gerard laughs against Frank’s mouth, pushing against his chest until Frank backs up enough for Gerard to hop off his bike. He then pushes Frank against the side of the nearest toll booth, which is conveniently unoccupied.

“You’re a motherfucker for making me do that.” Frank catches Gerard’s bottom lip between his teeth before letting it go to kiss him again. “Going to wreck us both to prove a point, what the fuck?”

“I was proving that  _ you _ could do something,” Gerard says, the words coming out muffled.

“It was fucked up!” Since Frank’s entire vocabulary has been reduced to ‘fuck,’ though, Gerard knows he’s just talking purely out of adrenaline.

“I’m your coach, what do you expect?” It’s a joke, but Frank pulls back. He’s got the front of Gerard’s shirt bunched up in his fist. Gerard hadn’t even noticed him unzip his motorcycle jacket the few inches.

“Can you really not turn that off?” Frank asks. His lips are pink and shiny with spit.

Gerard drags his eyes up. “What?”

“We’re making out. Can you not turn it off?”

“Turn  _ what _ off? Are you suddenly mad that I’m your coach?”

“No.” Frank gives him a hard look before sighing. “Let’s just take the rest of the day off. Go back to our place and hang out.”

Gerard glances back at their bikes. He doesn’t want to forfeit any practice time before the tour starts, but Frank is probably low on gas by now anyway. Plus, with a little bit of work, he thinks he can get Frank’s bedroom eyes to come back. “Okay, sure. We can be done.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Gerard says, before he remembers something. “Oh, shit, no. I almost forgot. We’re having Pete over for dinner tonight.”

Frank lets go of Gerard’s shirt and drops his hand. “We just had Pete over.”

“We had him over five months ago when he was in Jersey for Christmas. And he’s only in town again to see his mom before the tour starts,” Gerard says. “Come on, don’t be like that. You like Pete.”

“I like him, but I’m also going to be racing with him for three and a half thousand miles. We’ll get our fill of each other.”

“You’re going to be so far ahead of him, you won’t even see him.” 

That gets a little smile out of Frank. “God, it’s like I don’t even need an ego with you around.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you.” Gerard grins back, then sobers. “Do you really not want Pete to come over?”

A beat passes. Frank looks away from Gerard before bringing his gaze back. “No, I know this is important to you.”

“It is,” Gerard says. It’s been nicer than Gerard could have ever imagined to stay in contact with someone else who knew Mikey well, now that Pete’s not trying to skin him alive on the asphalt and stuff. "Thank you."

Frank nods. A conspiratorial glint appears in his eyes. “I’m picking dinner, and it’s going to be that Italian takeout place you think is overrated.”

Gerard frowns. “It  _ is _ overrated. Their breadsticks always come out soggy.”

“And you’re just going to have to deal with it,” Frank says mercilessly. He steps backward, smirking in the face of Gerard’s disapproval, before walking back to his Suzuki.

They thank Travie on their way out. Travie waves them off without even looking up from the magazine he’s reading.

*

“I fucking told you.” Gerard lifts a breadstick off his plate, and it wilts like a dying flower.

“That thing is flaccid,” Pete says around a mouthful of vegetarian lasagna. “Dude, your breadstick needs Viagra.”

“See!” Gerard yells accusingly, but Frank just laughs at him. 

Pete laughs too. Then he goes back to telling a story about how he and his friends back in Chicago accidentally blasted their eyebrows off as teenagers, all because they tried to fit a V-twin engine with what he affectionately calls, “Ridiculous shit we jacked from a junkyard Mustang.”

“You flew too close to the sun.” Frank points with his fork, nodding. “With a better mechanic, that could’ve been a superbike.”

“We were fifteen, give me a break.” Pete smiles, but when he meets Gerard’s eyes, Gerard knows they’re thinking the same thing. Mikey, the hell of a mechanic he was, probably could’ve made that work.

After they finish eating, Gerard goes and turns on the TV so they can listen to some more pre-race coverage while they do the dishes. As soon as he’s out of the living room, Frank slips by and mutes it. Gerard raises an eyebrow. Frank doesn’t seem to notice.

Frank clears the table, Gerard rinses the dishes, and Pete loads them into the dishwasher. While Gerard is wringing out the sponge, he looks over and sees Pete staring down at his arms. He looks down too, following Pete’s gaze. 

Oh, right. His tattoo. Pete is one of the only people in the world who can recognize that specific X.

“Do you remember. . .” Pete starts. When Gerard glances up again, Pete is biting his lip, looking like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “When he did the dishes. He used to, like, sing little songs to whatever tune, just saying ‘dishes’ over and over? It was the most un-Mikey thing ever.”

The memory makes Gerard feel warm all over. “Yeah. Like—” He grumbles out a few seconds of the beginning of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck,” but he replaces ‘thunder’ with ‘dishes.’

Pete’s laugh fills the room. “Yes! Exactly!”

Gerard grins down at the plate he’s cleaning. “He picked that up from me when we were kids. I used to sing when we did chores so he’d complain less.”

“That’s genius,” Pete says. “I only heard him do it like, a few times, but I always hid so he wouldn’t notice me and stop.”

Gerard wonders for a moment what it would’ve been like if Pete and Mikey had gotten to be together longer, if they’d made it to the point where Pete didn’t have to hide to keep Mikey singing. He bets Pete thinks about that a lot, too. 

Gerard reaches over and squeezes Pete’s shoulder, accidentally leaving behind some dish soap suds. He swipes them away with the dry back of his hand. “How’s his Yamaha?”

Pete smiles lopsidedly. “Still kicking. Still that awful yellow.”

“Good,” Gerard says. “I know it’s bright, but thanks for not changing it.”

Pete says, “I would never change anything of his, you know? I want to keep it how he did.”

“Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.” Gerard doesn’t look down at his tattoo again, but he thinks of it. “Do you ever feel that way about Jersey? Like, you get upset that things keep changing, and he’s not here to see it?”

“Hm.” Pete tilts his head. “I think places are different. Just coming to Jersey, that makes me feel like I’m keeping him with me.”

Gerard considers that. Frank comes back to the sink to drop off the serving bowls, and while he reaches over to put them down, he kisses the back of Gerard’s shoulder. It’s grounding.

“Glad you’re here, then,” Gerard says. Pete’s eyes crinkle with a smile. They get back to the dishes.

*

Their alarm goes off wickedly early the next morning. Frank rolls over in bed and smushes his face against Gerard’s chest. “Fuck, turn that off. I hate press.”

“You don’t hate press.” Gerard rubs the sleep out of his eyes and waves his hand around, trying to find first the alarm and then the switch to the lamp next to their bed. “The people love you.”

“They don’t love me,” Frank says. “They just love how good I look in a motorcycle jacket.”

“That’s why I love you, too,” Gerard says, and earns himself a smack on the thigh.

“Let’s just stay in bed.” Frank slides more fully over Gerard’s body. He turns his head into the crook of Gerard’s neck, not quite kissing, just breathing rhythmically. He aligns their hips and starts to move in a slow, morning-lazy pace, not nearly enough to actually get either of them going.

Still, Gerard plays along. “Wow, you’ve seduced me,” he says breathily, and feels Frank huff out a laugh against his skin. “You know what would really turn me on, babe?”

“Hm?”

“If we got up and went to your interviews on time.”

Frank rolls off of him all at once and groans. 

“You can’t already be sick of the attention. It’s only your second year,” Gerard says. “Come on, you leave tomorrow. We have to do these today.”

For a moment, they just blink stupidly at each other while Frank fails to come up with another argument. Fuck, they definitely need some caffeine.

“I’ll put on coffee while you shower,” Gerard decides, glancing again at their digital clock. Thirty minutes until they need to be on the road. 

“Fine.” Frank sits halfway up in bed. “But you’re driving.”

“Ah, nothing says Circuit champion like arriving on the back of your boyfriend’s motorcycle.”

“I’m not trying to race to Channel 29, God.” Rolling his eyes, Frank heads for the bedroom door. “Come shower with me. You have Muppet hair.”

*

The first interview goes smoothly. Frank sounds confident without trash-talking too much. He yawns pretty obnoxiously at one point, but it’s a recorded segment so they’ll just cut it out.

Everyone takes a break while the crew swaps out backgrounds and switches from their recording setup to live TV. The next interviewer still hasn’t arrived, so Gerard and Frank get a few minutes to themselves, crammed up against a wall off set so they don’t get in anyone’s way.

Frank yawns again into his fist. “You think that went okay?”

Gerard settles his hands on Frank’s waist. “More than okay. You struck fear into the hearts of your competition.”

“Really? I wasn’t trying to be mean.”

“Well, okay.” Gerard squeezes the flesh at Frank’s hip. “You didn’t tear into any of the other racers like you did to me last year.”

“What are you talking about?” Frank widens his eyes, but he’s not that good of an actor.

“When you called me a geezer on national television?”

“That’s not what I said!” If Frank hadn’t just given himself away, his shit-eating grin would now. “If you want, I can insult someone else in the next interview.”

“Damn. You just ooze charm, you know that?”

The set lights come back on with a  _ pop, _ and a crew member yells, “Frank Iero in place! We’re live in three!”

“Wish me luck,” Frank mutters, and pushes up on his toes so Gerard can kiss his forehead.

The interviewer, a woman in a smart suit with her curls pulled back in a ponytail, starts out with the basic questions every interviewer in the world fires at Frank. Frank handles them deftly and pretends to look at least partially interested.

“Any strategy?” she asks.

A smile. “To put to use all the training I’ve done this year.”

“Are there any other racers you’re worried about?”

“I’m not worried about anyone. You should ask everyone else if they’re worried about me.” 

She laughs. Good — he’s endearing, not cocky. “I would, but there aren’t any other racers here. Well, at least, not any racers from this year’s tour.” Her eyes suddenly flick over to where Gerard is lurking behind the cameras. Frank’s gaze follows, his eyebrows up. This wasn’t planned.

Everyone is silent for a few uncomfortable beats. Then the interviewer asks, “Frank, would you like to tell us why we’ve got Gerard Way in the studio this morning?”

“Ah, he—” But she isn’t listening to Frank, she’s waving at Gerard, gesturing for him to come onto the set. There’s another chair next to Frank. Gerard didn’t notice that before.

Gerard looks to Frank, panicked. This is completely Frank’s thing — he’s the one racing, and Gerard isn’t about to crash that. Frank cuts the interviewer a sideways glance, sees that she’s still trying to beckon Gerard over, and gives Gerard a little nod.

Gerard wishes they could talk without everyone in the nation seeing them on live TV, but he gets Frank’s gist:  _ She’s not giving up on this, just indulge her. It’s not your fault that America loves you, honey. _

Maybe Gerard adds that last part just for himself, whatever.

He gets to the set in quick strides so the dead air doesn’t last much longer and sits down. Purposely, he leans back, trying to make himself less prominent than Frank in the camera’s eye.

“Gerard!” The interviewer grins wide. “Thanks for coming on. Days before the Fifteenth Annual Grand Circuit Tour, and we’ve got racing’s most promising upstart and our youngest ever victor side by side.”

Frank barely manages to hide the face he makes at the word  _ upstart. _ He opens his mouth to say something, probably to get them back on track, but the interviewer continues, “Gerard, so many years out, one year back in. Why don’t I see your name on this year’s lineup?”

Both Frank and the interviewer look at Gerard expectantly. A crew member shoves a cordless microphone at him since he’s not mic’d up, so Gerard takes it and says into it, “I’m not racing this year. I’m Frank’s coach.”

“And boyfriend,” Frank mutters over his shoulder for only Gerard to hear. 

The interviewer smiles thinly at him. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I’m really lucky to have Gerard in my corner,” Frank says, his media voice back on. “There’s no better coach.”

Gerard can tell Frank means it, but the tension rippling under his words makes him itch. The interviewer’s next question doesn’t help at all. “That’s great to hear. Last year, Frank, you secured your first Circuit victory on your first ever tour, beating Gerard by a hair. We’re all rooting for you to pull that off again, but since I have you both with me, I want to ask — what’s the plan if you don’t? Can we expect another try in 2022?”

Frank blinks a couple of times. Gerard watches him, expecting him to look over, but he doesn’t. “Uh, well.” He grabs at the zipper on his jacket, holds it between his fingers, clears his throat. The silence stretches.

Gerard leans forward. “You’re asking him what his plan is if he loses?”

“And yours, as his coach.” Gerard doesn’t get how she can sound so sunny. Frank taps the toes of his shoes together on the floor in a one-two one-two.

“That’s not something we’ve discussed,” Gerard says. “We’re anticipating a win."

They’re off air shortly after that, after some quick wrap-up spiel. Frank doesn’t say much on their way out of the studio or once they’re home. Gerard doesn’t push him. He’s been talking all morning; he deserves a break.

*

Gerard goes out and runs some errands so Frank doesn’t have to. By the time he gets back, the sun’s low on the horizon. He expects to find Frank packed for his flight out tomorrow morning, but instead he’s lying on their bed and talking on the phone, his suitcase open and empty.

“Yeah, he actually — he just got back. Yeah, I was trying to say so,” Frank says, rolling his eyes a little. Gerard wants to plop down next to him in bed, but he goes to their closet and pulls out Frank’s banquet suit instead. Gerard always just let the Circuit provide him with clothes so he didn’t need luggage, but Frank insists on bringing his own. Something about how he’s sure they’d get his measurements wrong. “I will, I will. Okay. Tell Dad I said hi. Love you too.”

After Frank puts down his phone on the nightstand, Gerard asks, “How are they?”

“Same as always. Annoyed that we don’t visit more often.” Frank sighs. Then, more seriously, he says, “They’re not writing any checks to Atlantic City, so they’re good.”

“We’ll visit soon.” First thing after the tour, probably. Gerard folds Frank’s dress shirt delicately, feeling his eyes on him. 

Frank props himself up on his elbows. “Why are you packing for me?”

Gerard shrugs as he moves onto the pants. They still have their pleats, thank God, because both of them are useless with an iron. “You seem stressed.”

Frank hesitates, then falls back onto the bed. “Yeah. I am. Thank you.”

“I get it. The night before I left for a tour, I used to always—”

Frank blurts out, “Do you regret letting me win last year?”

Gerard’s hand freezes on the suitcase’s zipper. “What? Why would you think that?”

“You gave up the victory for me,” Frank says. “Like, if you’d wanted to help me, you still could have won the title and then given the money to my family.”

That had never occurred to Gerard, honestly. But, “You never would’ve taken charity from me. Not knowingly.” He gets up and sits on the bed next to Frank, looking down to see him frowning.

“Maybe,” Frank says.

“Why are we talking about this? There were seconds between us.”

Frank blows out a breath. He closes his eyes. “Can we just talk about it?”

Oh. “Yeah, okay.” Gerard lies down next to Frank and drapes his arm over him. Frank takes the invitation, rolling onto his side so they’re pressed together. “You can tell me what’s going on.”

“I didn’t really win last year,” Frank says. “What if I can’t this year?”

Gerard furrows his eyebrows and runs his fingers down Frank’s back. “Because of what that interviewer said today?”

“No.” Frank’s sigh is warm through Gerard’s shirt. “I mean, that definitely didn’t help, but no.”

“So just normal race anxieties?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“You’ve been pushing me so hard,” Frank mumbles. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s because you regret letting me win, and you want to win through me.”

The words sink like a cold stone to the bottom of Gerard’s stomach. Oh, shit. 

Before he can think of a reply, Frank continues, “I feel like if I lose, I’m letting you down.”

“God, no,” Gerard says in a rush. “Sweetheart, no. I had no idea.”

Frank looks up at him. “Really?”

“I’ve been pushing you because I thought you wanted to win. The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve had that drive, so I wanted to support you.”

“I do want to win,” Frank says. “Trust me, I fucking do. I wouldn’t have let you nearly kill me on the Turnpike otherwise.”

“Yeah.” Gerard laughs lightly. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. You’re a good coach.” Frank turns his face away and talks against Gerard’s collarbone. “It’s like, you’re such a good coach that if I lose, I’m totally just a fuck-up.”

“You’re not going to lose.”

“Don’t say that.”

Gerard stops and thinks for a second. “Okay. You’re the best racer on the Circuit, so I don’t think you’re going to lose, but even if you did, I would never think you’re a fuck-up.”

“You can be honest,” Frank says.

“Frank.” Gerard waits for Frank to look at him again. When he doesn’t, Gerard gently puts a finger under his chin until he moves on his own. “I don’t regret that you won last year. I don’t care if you win this year. As long as you come home to me once it’s over, I’ll already have everything I want.”

This Frank, the one who’s not so sure of himself, who wants to be held and reassured, isn’t someone Gerard thought existed when they’d first met. But it’s like every day Frank shows Gerard more of himself. And Gerard gets to give more and more back to him.

“You better mean that, motherfucker,” Frank says. His eyes look watery.

“I do.”

“Okay.” Frank blinks rapidly, but no tears fall. “I’m sorry. I should have said something earlier, I just wasn’t sure how to talk about it.”

“Like this. You can always talk to me about anything.” Gerard moves a strand of Frank’s hair out of his eyes. “I’m sorry for pushing you so hard the past few days. I should’ve been there as your boyfriend.

“I need both, Gee. A coach and a boyfriend.”

“I hear you,” Gerard says. He smiles at Frank, and it’s maybe a little mischievous around the edges. “If it’s okay, though, I’m just going to be your boyfriend right now.”

It’s a terrible line, but Frank lets it slide. He tilts his chin up and kisses Gerard. Gerard rests his hand on the side of Frank’s face and kisses back, soft and slow.

After a minute, Frank pushes his shoulder forward against Gerard’s, using the momentum to get Gerard on his back and straddle him with his elbows on either side of his head. Ah — there’s the Frank Gerard knew first, the one who takes what he wants and doesn’t waste time.

“I’m everything you want, huh?” Frank says against his mouth. It’s smug, but underneath it, Gerard can hear real affection that makes his heart squeeze.

“More than,” Gerard murmurs. He sneaks his hands down to Frank’s waist and up under his — actually, Gerard’s — faded Motörhead shirt.

“Did you shrink this in the dryer to fit you?” Gerard asks as Frank sits up and pulls the shirt off. Jesus, Gerard sees Frank shirtless all the time, but it still fucking stuns him to be up close, close enough to see the details of Frank’s tattoos.

“You can’t fucking shrink fabric this old.” Frank shivers under Gerard’s touch as he traces two fingers over the flame by his heart. When Gerard drops his hand lower and pinches Frank’s nipple, Frank arches back a little, and a whine escapes him.

Gerard’s shirt goes next, and then Frank’s pants and underwear. Frank tries to shove Gerard’s jeans off while kissing his neck to not much success, even as Gerard does a shimmy move to try and help, so Gerard has to stand up and kick them off.

Once he’s naked save for his briefs, Gerard knees his way onto the bed and back to Frank, who’s lying there waiting. Frank grabs Gerard by the back of his neck and tugs him down into a hot, messy kiss. Gerard closes his hand around Frank’s cock between them and tries not to smile too hard as Frank’s hips kick. No matter how many times they do this, he’ll never stop loving how responsive Frank is.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Frank says. He pushes up into Gerard’s fist as Gerard strokes him. “What are we gonna do? Are you gonna get stuff?”

Gerard looks automatically over at the drawer of their nightstand, thinking for a moment. “Honestly? I don’t know if we should.”

“Yeah? Why not?”

Gerard presses his face between Frank’s collarbones. He wants to laugh at what he’s about to say, but he should stay at least partially serious, so he kisses the spot instead. “You know, you’re going to have to sit for so many miles while you’re racing. I wouldn’t want you to be sore.”

Frank’s expression is pretty much priceless. He finally manages to close his mouth just to open it again and say, “Fuck you, you are  _ not  _ that big.” 

“You’ve been sore before!”

“I have not,” Frank says, the liar. Then he visibly hesitates, though his hips don’t still. “Actually. I am pretty wrung out. Maybe we should just keep it simple.”

“Long day,” Gerard agrees. He lets go of Frank, but before Frank can complain, he slides down and settles in the V of his legs. Gerard folds his own legs up underneath himself and leans down, licking all the way up the side of Frank’s cock.

When Gerard looks up, Frank is staring right back at him, watching with hungry eyes as Gerard takes the head of his dick into his mouth. “Okay, this works,” Frank breathes out, and Gerard almost laughs again.

He wraps his hand around Frank as he starts to suck. He pulls off, flicks his tongue over Frank’s tip, just to tease him.

“Fuck,” Frank groans. He sinks his hands into Gerard’s hair, tugging slightly by the base of his skull, trying to guide him down. Gerard gives in and sinks down until his lips reach his fist. Frank curses and tips his head back. “Yeah, fuck, come on.”

Gerard bobs his head in time with his hand, looking up every once and a while to watch Frank come undone. He’s always beautiful, but he’s fucking gorgeous like this, hands clenched in the sheets and sweat glistening on his throat. “So good, babe,” Frank says, and Gerard hums around his dick in response.

Gerard knows how to make it fast, how to get Frank off quick and dirty, but he doesn’t pull out those tricks. Once Frank leaves, it’s going to be more than a week before he can get him in bed again. There’s no need to rush.

So Gerard takes it slow, sucking Frank off steadily until he’s moaning every time Gerard goes down. Gerard’s own dick goes from interested to rock hard in his briefs. He tries to subtly rub himself against the mattress without taking his attention away from Frank.

Gerard can tell Frank’s getting close when he starts to thrust up into Gerard’s mouth so hard that Gerard has to bar an arm over his hips to keep him from choking him. Frank whimpers — fucking  _ whimpers,  _ so fucking hot — and leans up to scrabble at Gerard’s shoulders.

“Come here,” Frank gasps out. Gerard lets himself be dragged off of Frank’s dick and up to kiss him, but he keeps stroking him evenly. Frank’s mouth is slack and open, and Gerard catches his lip, sucking on it before moving to bite at Frank’s jaw.

Frank’s hands slide down Gerard’s body and under the elastic of his briefs. He pulls them down just enough to take Gerard’s hard dick in his hand, fucking finally. He pushes his own hips up so he can take both their dicks into his hand. It’s sloppy, Frank’s cock wet from Gerard’s mouth, and Gerard’s pretty sure he’s leaking like a motherfucker, making the slide even easier. 

They rub against each other in Frank’s hand, and it’s too fucking good. Gerard drops his head into the crook of Frank’s shoulder and moans. He props himself more steadily on his elbow so he can reach his other hand down to join Frank’s. They stroke themselves together, breathing heavy, not having to say a word.

Frank comes first, spurting onto their joined fists. The noise he makes is so hot it makes Gerard’s head spin. He leans back on his knees as Frank shudders through aftershocks, jacking himself until he comes all over Frank’s chest with a groan.

Gerard collapses next to Frank. “Fuck, I love you.”

“Love you so much,” Frank pants. He pokes lazily at some of the come on his stomach. After a few minutes, he says, “Should we clean up?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, not moving.

Frank swats at his side. “I told you I love you, and you’re not even going to get me a washcloth?”

“I was actually the first one who said—” Frank turns his head and raises his eyebrows at Gerard. “Okay, okay, I’m getting up.”

Once they’re clean, Gerard gets under the covers with Frank and tangles their feet together. “How’re you feeling now?” he asks.

“I’m not freaking out,” Frank says. “If you want to come blow me before every leg of the race, that’d be great, actually.”

“That’s what a good coach does,” Gerard says solemnly, and Frank snorts.

Maybe they’ve got more to talk about, but Gerard can see tiredness tugging at Frank’s eyelids, and he could use some rest himself.  He kisses Frank’s forehead. “Goodnight.”

Frank squeezes his hand on Gerard’s waist. “‘Night, babe.”

It’ll be a little while before Frank falls asleep in Gerard’s arms again, so Gerard wants to treasure it, but before he can even really piece that thought together, he’s asleep.

*

At the airport, Gerard wrings his hands and asks, “Are you sure you have everything?”

Frank gives him a flat look and lifts up his suitcase. “You packed, remember?”

“Right.” Gerard nods a couple of times until he feels like a bobblehead. “Shit, I’ve never been on this side of things.”

“Never dropped someone off at the airport?”

“Never dropped someone off for the Circuit,” Gerard says. “It’s nerve-wracking. I’m so excited for you.”

“Yeah, well.” Frank catches one of Gerard’s hands and holds it in his, probably just so he’ll stop swinging it back and forth. “The Circuit’s still a flight away. But you should get used to this, since your boyfriend’s a big-shot.”

“He is.” Gerard beams, unable to help himself even if he wanted to. “And however he does out there, I’m going to be so fucking happy for him.”

“Sap,” Frank accuses, but he puts his suitcase down to pull Gerard in for a kiss, so somehow Gerard doesn’t believe he means it.

Frank rests his forehead against Gerard’s. “See you soon. I love you.”

“I love you too. See you on TV,” Gerard says, and that makes Frank smile.

They kiss one more time, and then Frank really has to go through security if he’s going to make his flight. Gerard stands back and watches him go, waving like a dork.

As Frank goes through the body scanner, Gerard looks down at his wrist where his jacket’s ridden up to see his X. He traces the ink. He looks back up just in time to catch Frank throw one more grin over his shoulder, and he smiles back.

Ten years ago, Gerard never could have imagined this is where he’d end up, at the Newark airport sending someone else off to the Circuit. But he can feel it’s right. This is where he’s supposed to be, in New Jersey, living, remembering. Waiting for the man he loves to come home.


End file.
